


A Situation Mis-Manhandled

by DinosaurTheology



Series: The Scholar and the Seeker [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Body Image, Conversations, Crestwood, Duelling, F/M, Late Night Conversations, Rift, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-19 21:49:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4762298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinosaurTheology/pseuds/DinosaurTheology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment's thoughtless teasing by Sera cuts Cassandra to the bone, for all her armor and training. The Inquisitor must set matters aright with love's unyielding precision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caer Bronach's Courtyard

**Author's Note:**

> Dragon Age and these characters aren't mine, but they continue to prove so rich for exploration. Writing about them has helped me to remain grounded during an arduous job search and training process.

The Highwaymen boiled in Caer Bronach's quadrangular courtyard. Rain slashed faces fair and dark, plastering hair to foreheads. Blood and water mixed on the ground, churned into soupy mud by the multitude of boots. Chaos reigned in Crestwood and, for once, the Highwaymen were its victims, not authors. Berud, their chief, sighed and hoisted the Last Stand onto his beefy shoulder. It was only to be expected, he supposed. No good thing could last forever. Between the swollen lake and the Maker-accursed dead crawling out of it traffic along the main thoroughfare through the region, between Denerim and Jader, had slowed to a trickle. They should have cleared out days ago, perhaps even weeks. No matter. What was done couldn't be undone, Berud thought. Those sort of ideas lead him down roads he didn't care for, where he was a soldier in King Alistair's army, or a Grey Warden like his beloved liege Loghain, maybe even doing merc jobs up in Antiva or the Free Marches, not a common thief in the wilds. Nothing to be done for it. He waded into battle.

At the center of the maelstrom, Cassandra Pentaghast swirled, pirouetted and dashed to-and-fro among a multitude of foes. Between her enchanted shield Wintersbreath and the shimmering, purple barrier maintained by Lord Mischa Trevelyan it seemed like no single mote of gore could cling to the gleaming silverite of her breastplate of the Knights-Divine. Avenger, the blade she'd received as a personal gift from Alistair Theirin after she'd aided Josephine's effort to help him navigate the troubled waters of diplomacy with his fractious neighbor Empress Celene I Valmont, danced between bodies. The blade, flashing like magic with each crackle of lighting, found men whole and left them rent. They fell, clutching the stumps of arms or trying desperately to hold their entrails in place, squirting blood from a torn throat or pierced thigh. The others of the Inner Circle present, Varric and Sera, more than held their own but it was Cassandra who drew all the Highwaymen's eyes. She glowered under the faceplate of La Criniere du Duc. That was how it should be; swords, spears and arrows clattering against her thick armor so that Mischa and the precious mark on his hand would be safe.

Ah, to hell with it... may as well admit so that he, precious in all ways, would be safe, too.

Berud stepped aside from the fight, raised a druffalo horn to his lips and let a winding blast ring through the courtyard. His Highwaymen stopped in their tracks, ceasing hostilities short of throwing their weapons to the ground. All Inquisition fighters lurched to a halt, as well, unsure what was happening but uneasy with slaughtering men who did not offer resistance. Berud rapped the Last Stand three times on muddy cobblestones. "You all fight well--a damn sight better than my piss poor followers."

The little elf with frightfully ugly hair and a nose like a nug, he'd heard them shout the name Sera at her, stepped forward. "Yeah, well, that's cause we're the fuggin Inquisition, hey? If you fuck with us or any of the little people we like, you're gonna get up-fucked-arse."

"So I see. But my Highwaymen are 'the little people,' too, Red Jenny."

She scowled. His recognition of her cant had, obviously, at least slowed the runaway hart that was her mind. "Well, maybe... but you're being right cunts about it, aint ye?"

"They're farmers forced off their land, soldiers with no hope... men broken since the Blight. We are as poor and hungry as those we prey on."

Their dwarf cackled. "Right... up until you rob them and can get some food and ale, I suppose."

He shrugged. "All men have to eat, and you need something to wash it down with." He let his gaze fall over the bodies strewn around Caer Bronach. "I would just not see any more of my men dead."

The tall, female apparition of death in silverite turned. Blood had stained the gleaming metal rusty brown. "What are you suggesting, bandit? That we withdraw, leaving our backs to you, and let you murder us and continue to harass the people of Crestwood? You must have gone mad from living in the wild all this time."

"No. What I'm suggesting is that we fight--you and I--as champions of our respective crews. If I win then your friends can get the hell out of here. I'll even let them keep your sword and shield, as long as they leave that glorious armor; I can get it reworked to fit around me, and you're a tall wench anyway. If you win then my men will lay down their arms and withdraw."

"Not a chance." She glanced at their leader, the Herald of Andraste. "Right?"

The Inquisitor, who looked like a damned shabby prophet for the beloved bride of their Maker, scratched his short, chestnut beard. "I don't know. I mean, it's highly irregular, sure, but... anything that keeps more people from dying can't be a terrible idea." He peered sharply at Berud with honey colored eyes that saw more than comfort allowed. "Do I have your word and bond that they'll put down their weapons and leave when you fall? I believe I can trust you--I know you were a soldier of Ferelden at Ostagar, and followed Loghain loyally until the Landsmeet. His honor may have been tainted but yours was not."

Bloody enchanters... how could they see so far, so deep? Berud suppressed a shudder. "All right, you have my word. These lads don't want any more fight, anyway. They know damned well that if I go down then you'd cut them apart like Mabari among nugs."

"All right, then." He rapped his staff, like he'd seen Berud do with the Last Stand, like he probably bloody knew that Chasind descended warriors from the pasture land around Gwaren always did. "You will meet my champion in personal combat, as the champion of your own men." He glanced over at his companion. "If that's all right with you, of course, my love."

She shrugged. Her face, under a now raised visor, was handsome in spite of her scars. "One dead man is better than many. I must applaud you, bandit. I would not have thought your kind to have any honor left." She clapped the visor shut. It rang with finality.

Berud and Cassandra circled, raised and lowered in their stances, tried to gauge some weakness or opening in the other. With none readily apparent, each launched feints and half-hearted attacks. Berud caught her blade low on the Last Stand's haft, pushed it away, and probed with the great maul's spiked tip. She back-stepped to avoid a foot sweep, courtesy the weapon's butt, and guided Avenger in a searching thrust toward his bearded face. No words passed between them; neither was an enemy you wasted breath while engaging. 

Berud lashed out and struck the first solid blow. It landed solidly. A shockwave ripped down Cassandra, to the soles of her feet. Her ears rang; she was certain they would for hours and that her left arm would be numb just as long. A normal shield, even one of the rarer, stronger variants, would have burst asunder. Hers however had been enchanted at the forge by Egon Wintersbreath, a living Paragon. Paint scraped off, under an enormous dent, but its form held firm. 

She made her move. Berud, overbalanced by a hearty swing and weakened by years of poor living and little time to train, caught Avenger's tip in his right bicep. He staggered backward, swearing, arm dripping. The Last Stand could not be wielded with a single hand. "Will you yield?" Her voice sounded hollow, behind the visor. She remained on guard but lowered the tip of her blade, gave him space to answer.

He lunged, one swing left in him, tried to strike head or shoulder. A broken neck would end the fight fast, and if not he could perhaps get her in the mud, bear her down by sheer weight. His strength would let him use a kidney dagger then, on the joints of her fancy armor, or just dash her brains out against the cobblestones.

She sidestepped his blow and caught his rush, again, on her shield. They stood close enough to kiss. He smelled oil and metal, sweat and leather, onions on her breath. These unwomanly smells somehow grounded her, made this bloody Revenant seem more real. She grunted, hurled him away from her, and cut into his wounded arm with Avenger.

Berud roared. His mail absorbed some of the blow, veridium was good for that much, but it still bit deep into his flesh. The arm hung by ragged skin and tendons. He fell to one knee, glowered up at her, and nodded. Cassandra knew the signal and ended things with a fast, clean thrust through his throat. The Highwaymen's chief fell, blood pouring in a welter from his throat, and moved no more. She turned and remained in her fighting stance, unsure if their word would prove good.

It did. All the fight had drained from each man and woman. They laid down their weapons, raised their hands. Some marched, in a daze, through the ruined gate--courtesy of Sera's firebomb. Others knelt to offer Lord Trevelyan their new oaths of loyalty. She had to smile, grimly, under her helmet. The fealty of a bandit or mercenary was ever flexible. No matter; they needed all the help they could get, and Mischa accepted every stray dog and wandering nug that stumbled into his path anyway. Even the rain seemed lighter. Caer Bronach belonged to the Inquisition.

Varric sauntered up to her, Bianca slung casually over one shoulder. "Andraste's everloving ovaries, Seeker... you create more havoc than a bronto stampede."

Cassandra unsnapped her helmet from her gorget and hung it from a loop on her tasset. "Thank you, Varric. I think." She panted. In fine trim for a woman near the end of her fourth decade, better than most half her age, but... doing this did not get easier with each passing year.

"I'm serious. You near turned this scrape yourself. I mean, I thought you might be in a little trouble when he threw himself on you like that--Maker but he was a big bugger--but you tossed him like the Iron Bull tosses back ale. Absolutely magnificent."

"Is there any reason for all this flattery?"

"Well..." Varric scuffed his feet on the muddy cobblestones. "I was kind of thinking about a new book series, for men who really love big, strong women, you know, possibly getting beat up by them a little." He grinned in what he probably hoped to hell was a winning fashion. "I'd love it if you could model for the cover."

She glared at him. "Is there any way to say 'no' more forcefully than just saying it, flatly?"

"Er, well... I'd say 'bash me with your shield,' but I'm kind of afraid you might take me seriously."

"No. I begin to think you might enjoy it too much."

Sera, with her unerring ability to be exactly where one would least appreciate her presence, appeared at Cassandra's elbow. "I bet I know who does like, it, heheh."

"I have no possibly idea to whom you could be referring."

"Ooh, look at her... blushing all cute-like." Sera sniggered. "Pretty as peaches."

"That's blood on my face, Sera. We just fought a skirmish, if you'd forgotten."

"Oh, nah... pretty good scrap it was, too." She ducked around to Cassandra's other side. "You and Inky-poo gonna celebrate in the big bedroom tonight? Get all phwor on him, toss him around a bit?" She cackled. "Bet he loves that, big strapping drink of water like you."

Cassandra growled, deep in her throat. "Varric, has she been reading Swords and Shields, by any chance?"

He shrugged. "There's not an illustrated version, so my guess would be no. Although..." He stroked his chin. "An illustrated version might not be a terrible idea. Shame that the 'Knight-Captain' isn't here. I could ask her to model. Not that I would get anything other than a good, hard kick for my troubles."

"Yegh, collywobbles. I don't need to have been reading Varric's stupid old books to know what's what. I can peep that with my own two little eyes." She pointed to them with forked fingers, sparkling green and alight with deviltry. "Tell me, Miss Seeker... does he like to get his arse spanked with the flat of that fancy sword?"

"Sera, he is the Herald of Andraste."

"So? That don't mean nothing if he's not the Mayor of Dead-town. Everybody's gotta get ther jollies somewhat; I just bet that's how he gets his, like."

"Based on what?"

"Well, I mean he's all 'ooh, peace, love, understanding, blah, blah, blah,' and you're all, 'rah, yeah, fuck you, I've got a sword, hey,' and it just, I think, it..." She fidgeted. "Well, I just, it figures, don't it?"

"Sera!" Cassandra couldn't help the flush spreading up her neck and across her cheeks, now. Hopefully the Highwaymen's gore camouflaged it. "He is the most important man in the world. Don't you think he deserves a little more dignity?"

"I think he deserves to get off good and proper, is what I think."

Varric laughed. "She has you there, Seeker."

"Yeah, see? Besides, the Iron Bull says that lots of people need that kind of stuff, especially if they're all important-pants. It helps to keep them grounded, he said--which makes damn fine sense if you consider they're all tied down and shit."

"The things you people talk about, in your spare time," Cassandra said. "We're fighting to save a world of mad men and women."

"Yeah, Seeker, maybe they are mad," Varric said, "but only because it's a mad world already. It's just shaped them after its own image."

"Oh, he don't just talk, he does." Sera cackled. "I walked in on him and Dori-do once--we were supposed to be dicing that night, they must have forgot, the cheeky shits--and corr! I didn't know folks had quite that many joints in em, heheh. Bull ties knots like a sailor, and he was sailing the bloody seas of Tevinter." She finally calmed. "Walked right the fuck back out, I did."

"Well..." Varric tugged his chest hair. "Well, I'm going to go and drink that out of my mind with, er, something. Maybe there's some Chasind sack mead around here. Or butterbile. Or darkspawn blood. Y'know, just whatever's on tap." He offered the Merchant Guild's bobbing bow. "Tunsha, salrokas."

Sera chortled. "Weak. Weak. Heh. Can't take us talking girl talk like two, er... girls, hey?"

"I don't think you can really call this girl talk." Cassandra inspected the new nicks on her blade--they'd have to be polished out, soon. Avenger was too good a sword to let suffer any indignity. 

"Well, what the Maker's arsehole do you call it?"

"That I call close to blasphemy, and this I call one woman chattering foolishly while another listens, for a reason she cannot fathom, and is driven into madness."

"Ooh, I must have touched a nerve, or an artery, or some deep thing. Your liver? Gallbladder? Whatever." Sera laughed. "I knew you and Lord Trevelypants got up to some right wicked fuckery up behind closed doors. It just makes too much sense. He's all kind and understanding, you're all repressed and Chanty... you'd go off like that black Qunari powder, otherwise."

"What we do is hardly any business of yours." She sheathed Avenger. The hilt snapped against her scabbard with what Cassandra hoped was the finality and authority appropriate to a former Right Hand of the Divine, current Sword of the Inquisitor.

Neither finality nor authority were in Sera's vocabulary, though. "I've got it! Yeah! Big girl like you, and you a Seeker and him a mage and all, I bet you toss him over and fuck his arse with one of those fake cocks the Vints make." She danced. "Yeah, yeah, it's all 'I am a mighty noble mighty Seeker, magic-mage scum,' and he's all, 'oh, don't hurt me, I'll do anything,' and you, 'anything?' him, 'yeah, yeah, don't hurt me, please! Anything, anything!'" She got into it, puffing out her meagre chest or cringing as the role required. Finally things devolved into moaning, thrusting, giggles and lewd grunts. Cassandra had to admit; Sera was a talented, if graphic, actress.

Enough was enough. "Sera! Stop or I swear to the Maker and Justinia's memory that I will dangle you over the Abyssal Rift by your ankles until an archdemon emerges and eats you." She didn't add that such action would probably stop the sixth Blight in its track by giving the beast terminal indigestion.

Sera pouted. "All right, okay..." She let out one last, weak moan, nearly under her breath.

"Thank you. Now, I'm going to go and get something to eat and rest. I suggest you do the same. We may move out to drain the lake as early as tonight." She turned smartly on her heel and strode off, towards what had been the castle bailey's tavern. It was probably where the Highwaymen stored their food. Maybe a new recruit could lead them to something edible...

"Yeah, yeah, some food don't sound bad." She scuffed her toe against the cobblestones, cleaned one ear with the tip of her dagger, and reflected. Maybe she'd pushed Cassie-poo a little too far, a mite too hard? Nah. Impossible; those places didn't exist. They were just made up, like lands across the Frozen Seas or Amaranthine Ocean. "Totally right. Time to find a bite of grub and some ale, I reckon. I wonder if they've got some kidney pie to rustle?" Heh. Maybe that was the deep place she'd touched Miss Seeker of Truth. Poink! Right in the kidney. Sera giggled at the image and, after waiting a prudent moment, skipped after Cassandra towards the tumble down old tavern. A good fight and then a bit of fun... it was the kind of morning that could put you in a proper good mood, in spite of the rain.


	2. CAER BRONACH'S MASTER B EDROOM

Mischa Trevelyan lounged in the sturdy but less than opulent bed in Caer Bronach's master bedroom. Oh, it had probably been more luxurious at one point--this was the seat of a bann, once, or a favored knight--but years of neglect during the Blight, the war between mage and Templar and the depredations of a desperate bandit chieftain had left the silk Orlesian drapes ragged, the once plush Rivaini rug frayed at the edges. It didn't really matter. The bed was safe, and softer than a bedroll in a tent. He leaned against the pillows, pouring over a journal on the subject of combat clarity that he'd been given by Commander Helaine. The petite, deceptively young looking elven woman (weren't they all deceptively young looking?) was a strict, difficult teacher but he appreciated her blunt honesty and the uncomplicated loyalty with which she offered her friendship. The path of a knight-enchanter could prove rocky, so he was lucky to have one like her to guide him along it.

Knight-Enchanter... Trevelyan scratched his dark curls. There were so many titles hanging on him these days! Along with that one he counted Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, Trevelyan of Ostwick, middle child of Bann Hudric and Lady Aura, brother to Evelyn the Heir and Elmyra the Imp. Recalling their dear faces--well, Evelyn's had been dear when she wasn't rubbing dirt in his hair, when they were children--he thought also of his kindly mentor, First Enchanter Morrison, and his acerbic tutor, Senior Enchanter Eliasa. Mage. Enchanter--Junior Enchanter, even, and made so before the age of thirty-five. Scanning the dark ink scrawled on yellowing pages he realized, no matter what the rest of Thedas called him, that the titles mage and scholar would be those always closest to his sense of identity.

Cassandra rustled in the adjoining bath-chamber. Mage, enchanter... Trevelyan pondered a moment and realized that lover, partner or husband might have just as resonant a ring, in the right circumstances. She shut the door, gently as she could remember to, and stalked to the bed. The rug, better days though it might have seen, softened her heavy tread. She ran long, strong fingers--oh, Maker they were strong and sure--through dark, short cropped hair, wet from a recent splashing in the basin. "You have eaten, darling?"

Trevelyan looked up from his scroll. "Hmm?"

"I asked if you had eaten. When I see you with a book I always wonder. It's a miracle of the Maker that you do not forget to breathe."

"Oh," he said, marking his place with a finger and closing the journal, "I had a few pieces of bread and some cheese earlier. This Fereldan cheddar isn't quite good old Ostwick weisslacker, but I just couldn't turn it down."

She smiled. "I might keep that opinion to yourself, if I were you. Given King Alistair's pride in his domestic cheeses your praise of a foreign interloper might be a hanging offense."

He snorted. "Pride in Fereldan cheddar! That's like a little girl waving her mother's butter knife and calling herself Ser Aveline."

"Lover, you take your cheeses entirely too seriously. I fear that people will begin to mock us, sending wheels and wheels of cheese from all over Thedas until a second mountain is built beside Skyhold."

He sat up in bed. "Ooh, but what if they're sending the cheeses in earnest? Not mocking us but really, truly trying to give us their best."

"The result will be the same; we will still have added a geographical feature to the Frostbacks made entirely out of aged, curdled milk."

"Is that really such a terrible thing? I mean, if a giant, cheesy landslide didn't close off the entrance to Orzammar or bury Redcliffe, or something."

"Yes." The finality of her tone brooked no argument. Cassandra leaned on the carven yew end table, hooked her tall, polished boots each with a finger and slid them off her feet. Supple red-hart leather trousers followed, and then a jacket woved from boiled phoenix scales and sturdy cotton. Her undertunic, Dales loden wool to protect against chafing followed and she stood naked before him. Undergarments were a waste of time and redundant, she'd told him, since the only people who would ever see her in them would be as likely to see her without them anyway.

Presented with an expanse of lithe, well-built woman like the one in front of him, well... Trevelyan hadn't made the rank of Junior Enchanter at such a young age by being foolish enough to argue with a gift of the Maker like that being plopped down right in his lap. She stretched; he watched the rippling interplay of finely toned muscles, sloping down her back to generous hips and firm buttocks. Scars, wound around her ribs and over her shoulder, provided a contrast to the smooth skin that was tantalizing rather than off-putting. All in all, he considered himself a pretty lucky fellow.

She flopped on the mattress and curled into his side, under his arm. Nightclothes, she'd told him, were almost as ridiculous as dedicated underthings. The long socks he preferred, lest his feet freeze at night, were a source of amusement for her... weren't lovers, after all, supposed to keep each other warm? She sighed. "Today has been a long one."

"Not as long as it was for that poor bandit."

"He was not so poor that he could not swing an enchanted maul at my skull. Let us pray tomorrow will prove less taxing." She yawned. "Though I have no reason to believe it will."

"Oh, come on..." He let his fingers play along her flat, taut stomach, teasing the little trail of dark hairs below her navel. "It's entirely possible that we'll drain the lake and find absolutely nothing abnormal down there."

She shivered at his attention. "There is a rift, dear. Do you expect to find anything apart from demons falling out of it like this interminable rain?"

"Er..." He offered the lopsided grin that turned her muscles to water. "Maybe they'll be very small demons?"

"If they are smaller that means they will also be faster."

He kissed her, cutting off the stream of pessimistic reality that contrasted so well with his usually sunny attitude. It opened, blossomed and sweltered, a black lotus blooming in the humid, endless corridors of passion. They remained silent for long moments, wound their limbs, spent time exploring the innermost secrets of each other. She crouched over him, hips rocking against his. She leaned forward, let her nipples brush his lips, and arched back in ecstasy. Her strong arms pinned his shoulders; hazel eyes and amber bored through each other. Neither could say, later, if the other even blinked. Release approached and burst, storm waves crashing against Amaranthine's high, thick walls.

Later they lay under a sheen of sweet, glimmering summer sweat, souls and scents intermingled. There was perhaps, each had to admit, some advantage after all to the day and night's damp, oppressive heat. She kissed his shoulder, nuzzled against his neck. "Mischa... do you consider me beautiful?"

He chuckled, fingers slipping through her short, perspiration slick hair. "After all this you even ask?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, then, I'll answer you. I love you Cass, madly."

"That's not what I ask." She chose her words carefully. "I asked you if I was beautiful. It is possible to love someone who is not beautiful, and I have never thought I was."

"What brought all this on?"

"It was the fight, today, with the Highwaymen's chief."

"Ah, yes." He kissed her collarbone. "You were magnificent."

"Thank you."

"Did he, er... make you feel unlovely, in some way? I mean, I'd defend your honor, but I'd look awful silly challenging a dead man to a duel. He would just sort of, you know, lay there."

"No, it's not that. I spoke with Varric and Sera after the fight--or they spoke with me, I should say. Some things were said that made me wonder. Varric was trying to compliment me, I know that much; he could never be cruel. Sera, though..."

"Shall I give the wayward waif a good, hearty paddling?"

Cassandra's lip curled. "You have no idea how close that comes to what was actually said."

Trevelyan's brow furrowed. "Come again?"

"A great deal was made of the fact that I am as tall as you and, well..." She patted his stomach, mostly flat but soft, to contrast with her own well sculpted, muscular torso. "Stronger, I suppose. Physically."

"You're stronger than almost everyone, except maybe Bull or Blackwall." He stroked his short, well-trimmed beard. "Varric must've been angling for a new cover model for one of his books--maybe in the vein of Swords and Shields."

"He mentioned something of the sort." She snorted. "As if I could ever stand in the place of the Knight-Captain!" Cassandra sighed. "That porcelain, Fereldan skin, the blazing sheaf of copper hair..."

He laughed. "Not quite how he described the real Knight-Captain--Kirkwall's Guard Captain and de facto ruler Aveline Hendyr."

She propped on her elbow. "What did he say about her?" Her eyes narrowed. "It better not have been anything unpleasant, or his day could quickly become the same."

He waved off her worry. "No, no, nothing like that. He just said she was a tall woman, almost as tall as Declan Hawke, with broad shoulders, a long ginger braid and an open, square face more honest than it was beautiful. Now his description of the real pirate queen, the one he based Ezodora the Crimson from The Singing Seas book on, was a little more... lush." He quirked his lips. "Everything about her seems to have been pretty lush."

Cassandra narrowed her eyes. "Perhaps you would like to saunter over to our bookshelf and spend some time with that particularly lush wench, Mischa?"

"Calm yourself, Cass. All I mean is that Varric has an... appreciation... for strong women. Hell, you've met that little nightmare Bianca Davri just like I have. Anything Varric said along those lines was sincere, I would attest to it before the Maker and man."

"I believe you." She lay flat on her back, staring straight up. "Sera's words cut a little deeper. They were..." She struggled to find the right way to express this. "Their implications were vile."

"So is Sera, more or less."

"Yes. She said openly that because I am... not as soft as other women, I suppose, that I must be aroused by hurting you and that you must be aroused by the pain."

"Wow... that sounds a little technical to have been coming from our little feral elf."

Cassandra colored, a deep blush that ran from her forehead to the tops of her breasts. "Those were not her exact words. And do not ask; I won't repeat them. Just know that the acts were..." She grimaced. "Shameful. Not fitting to be discussed regarding a man of your stature, the Herald of Our Lady."

"I won't press you--though I must admit some morbid curiosity." He collected her in his arms again. "All this somehow lead you to ask whether I found you beautiful or not?"

"Yes." She growled, deep in her throat. "I know how foolish it must sound. I have trained as a warrior for as long as I remember, have been a Seeker for more than half my life... but I am a woman, too. I wonder, from time to time; have the scars and armor and cynicism of my career buried that? Is that all there is, or is there still Cassandra under there?"

He lay still for a long, silent moment. Her nerves danced, wondering what he might say. Finally, he turned to gaze deep into her murky, hazel eyes. He drank in her stark, angular features, scar and long nose turned from its path by a half a lifetime ago break. "Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast is all of those things and more... she is Seeker, warrior and woman, lover and friend, Sword of the Inquisition and the only one I ever want by my side. She is, furthermore, the most beautiful thing I see each day."

She bathed in the words. Warmth grew in her stomach, spread to all corners, from fingertips to toes. She snuggled tight against him. "Thank you, my love. That is all that I wanted to hear. Now we can get some sleep."

"What? After all that you don't want to... y'know. Again."

She yawned. "We have an early morning. The lake will not drain itself."

He sighed. "My ardor brought to heel by such mundane concerns as saving Thedas. Ah well." He kissed her forehead, cheek, nose, lips and chin. "Goodnight, sweet one." She had already begun to drift and responded with murmured nonsense. Mischa Trevelyan let his eyes slip shut and followed her, carried away by the soft sounds of her snoring and the pattering rain.


End file.
